


im a fool for you

by kingmoriarty



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Orphanage, Bullying, Catholic Orphanage, First Kiss, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccurate Catholicism, M/M, Q is a Holmes, Romance, Slow Burn, Sorry I literally know nothing about Catholicism and nuns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 17:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12237249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingmoriarty/pseuds/kingmoriarty
Summary: James is indifferent and Q is curious and God knows how they can stand each other, but they do.If anything, they save each other.





	im a fool for you

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm really excited for this fic, honestly. Can't wait! And I'm planning to actually finish this - hopefully I will!
> 
> Thank you for reading and please don't forget to leave kudos/comment/subscribe.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Q," he finally replies, his voice tiny. "Who are you?" 
> 
> Surprisingly, the boy doesn't question Q on his name. (It's Quentin, really, but nobody needs to know that).
> 
> "James," the boy answers matter-of-factly, and he's staring at Q as if he's the anomaly, and not the other way around. "How did you sneak out? I thought the younger kids sleep in the dormitories in groups." 
> 
> Q scrunches his nose in disdain. "I have my own room. I'm _fourteen_." 
> 
> The boy, James, mulls this over silently, looking Q up and down. "You don't look fourteen," he observes skeptically.

Q wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve, before letting his arms drop to his sides, only the tips of his fingers peeking out. The shirt is too big, but it’s the only one that comes closest to his size - the nuns give the smaller clothes to the younger kids first, and then he gets whatever’s left.  

Not that he minds. Sometimes, it’s nice wearing baggier clothes. They cocoon him, hide his small frame. He often curls his fingertips up and holds his sleeves to make sure they don’t rise up, staring down at the white crescents at the bottom of his nails and wondering if he can ask for more milk next time. It makes him feel safer. 

He knows he’s lucky to be at the orphanage, no matter how much some of the other kids taunt him about Sherlock, his older brother, leaving Q as soon as he turned eighteen. They don’t understand though, that Sherlock barely has enough for himself out there, let alone to support Q. And he doubts the nuns would let Sherlock take him out of the orphanage anyways, what with him being a ‘drug addict’. 

Which he isn’t. Sherlock just has a different mind, and anyone who really knows Sherlock will understand that. He needs drugs sometimes, yes, but only to keep his mind quiet. Because Sherlock’s mind is brilliant - Sherlock is brilliant. That’s how he used to get his drugs, through sheer intelligence, otherwise it’s next to impossible. He memorised the nuns’ shifts, when they took their rounds to check the dormitories, and then he figured out which of the deliverymen would be pliable to persuasion. Then he figured out a rota for having his drugs delivered to his dorms, persuading some of the younger kids to lurk around when the deliverymen would come each week and collect the drugs for him.  

He always used these drugs alone, at night, and he never let them affect his behaviour negatively. As far as Q knows, the only misdeed he ever partook in was stealing books from the nuns’ library to teach himself natural chemistry.  

Q catches the nuns talking disapprovingly about Sherlock often, especially Sister Thelma. He always cuts his eyes towards her angrily, bottom lip stuck out impertinently. Thelma will stop slandering Sherlock, the tiniest of smiles gracing her face, and say, “Oh, Quentin, if only you would harbour such a strong sense of reverence for the Lord.”  

That’s one thing Q doesn’t understand. The Lord. Why are the nuns always going on about him? Even when Father Proctor comes in every fortnight to talk to the kids, all he ever talks about is the Lord. Q doesn’t care much, he always finds his mind drifting off when they all gather in the hall, but sometimes he wishes Father Proctor would just talk about other things, like the actual outside world.  

He asked, once, and Father Proctor had said with a laugh that the Lord made the world (in six days, apparently) so to talk about him is to talk about the whole world.  

Q would much rather stay in his room and read. Sherlock stole some books for Q too, only a couple. He hides them under his mattress, in case someone comes looking for them, but it’s been ages and none of the nuns have realised they’re missing. Q thinks maybe the nuns don’t really read much. They took some of the kids to the library once, and all the books just seemed to be gathering dust.  

Sherlock was in a rush that time, he said, so he couldn’t really pick the books properly. The only one he meant to get was ‘The Catcher in the Rye’, because he heard it from Sister Anne, a slip of the tongue really, and he thought Q would like it. 

Other than that, he has ‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Lolita’. ‘Jane Eyre’ he finds terribly boring, even though it’s a Penguins Classic edition which means it must be important. 

And ‘Lolita’ he doesn’t really understand. Something about a stepfather kidnapping his daughter, but Q doesn’t understand the logic of that. He doesn’t understand half the words either, but they sound very musical. So, he uses the book as a method to calm himself down - when he’s angry or upset he’ll grab ‘Lolita’ and let the foreign words wash over him, as he reads with extreme concentration, his tongue poking out.   

‘The Catcher in the Rye’, though, is his favourite. It’s very worn out now, because Q’s read it so many times, but even before he got it it was falling apart. He likes that about it, that someone else loved it before him, just as much. 

The name of the author is missing from the front. It seems it was written in some sort of silver overlay, and it’s worn off. He can’t read it off the spine of the book either, because it’s been ripped off. He loves it, though. It’s simple, but it isn’t boring. And the way the characters speak in the book is so different to what he’s used to. Like Holden always saying “that killed me” when he finds something funny. It’s just so strange. Q said it once, by accident, in front of a sister. He received a good scolding for speaking in an inappropriate manner, and he never said it again, not even in private with John or Aaron.  

He wants to know who the author is. He almost did ask Father Proctor, but bit down on his tongue and kept quiet because they aren’t meant to really know things like that. Plus, then the sisters would sooner or later realise that there were books missing in the library, and they’d probably think  _he_ stole them. 

Q steps into the kitchen, quiet as can be on his feet. That’s one thing Sherlock taught him before leaving: how to sneak around. It’s not that hard anyways, but most of the children just go to sleep at night. They don’t really want extra things. They keep themselves preoccupied with things that they already have, like annoying the younger kids or playing marbles or placing bets on which Sister will crack first if they start a food fight.  

At the moment their preoccupation is a magazine that Harold managed to sneak in. Q remembers being mildly excited when he saw all the kids milling about Harold’s room, trying to get a sneak at whatever contraband he had, but it only turned out to be a magazine of scantily clad woman. Apart from the fact that these women look very different, alien even, compared to the nuns in their long habits, Q doesn’t understand the appeal of the magazine. 

Q sniffles as he pushes open the kitchen door slowly. He's sneaking into the kitchen, for food like he usually does, but this time he’s hoping to find some tissues as well because his nose keeps on running.  

He sneaks into the kitchen once a week. Tuesdays, because that’s when they’re given porridge and Q is allergic. The nuns don’t care much because they don’t believe him (“Do you have a rash?” Sister Catherine had asked him when he tried to tell her about his allergy) but he knows he is because he sneezes like a madman for the rest of the day.  

So, he’s stopped eating the porridge. The first few times he thought he’d be fine skipping a day, but he gets hungry at night. He’s not like Sherlock, who could go two days without eating if he wanted. Q can feel the hunger gnawing at him as he tries to sleep.  

Moonlight streams through the large windows, making the kitchen seem bigger than it is. It seems absolutely huge, and Q's fingers itch to find something to eat. Normally he can find some plain bread, which is good, great even, but sometimes he finds a cheese sandwich. And that's good, Q likes cheese.  

He makes sure to be silent as he walks over to the cupboards and starts opening them. It's the second last one that has the bread, but he goes to the first one to see if there are any sandwiches.  

Before he can open the drawer, he hears a voice from behind him and pretty much jumps in fear. "Who the hell are you?" 

It's not a nun, which Q thanks 'the Lord' for over and over. He slowly turns around to see a boy standing behind the kitchen island. He must've crouched behind there when he heard Q come in, he thinks.  

He's never seen this boy before, which is unsettling. Surely everyone would be told if a new boy joined the orphanage? There's usually a ruckus when someone new comes in, unless it's one of the youngest kids in which case no one really cares. 

Q hasn't replied yet, and he realises that this boy is staring back at him with the same scrutiny that Q is him. The boy steps forward, to get a better look at Q, and as he steps into the light Q notices that his eyes are blue.  

"Q," he finally replies, his voice tiny. "Who are you?" 

Surprisingly, the boy doesn't question Q on his name. (It's Quentin, really, but nobody needs to know that).

"James," the boy answers matter-of-factly, and he's staring at Q as if he's the anomaly, and not the other way around. "How did you sneak out? I thought the younger kids sleep in the dormitories in groups." 

Q scrunches his nose in disdain. "I have my own room. I'm  _fourteen_." 

The boy, James, mulls this over silently, looking Q up and down. "You don't look fourteen," he observes skeptically. 

"Well, that's none of your business." Q doesn't want to alienate this new boy, especially doesn't want to make an enemy out of him, but he's irritated. He blames it on the hunger, and James interrupting his quest for food. When James doesn't further the conversation, he adds quickly, "It's the clothes. They make me look small." 

James nods imperceptibly, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here?"  

And okay, that's unwarranted isn't it, because Q belongs here. Q should be asking James these questions. "I'm hungry," he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Why are _you_ here?" 

"Bored." 

Q nearly offers one of his books, only stopping himself from doing so because no-one can know he has stolen books in his room. And he hardly knows this boy. There's a split second where he imagines that the nuns know he's been stealing from the kitchen and have sent James as a guard to catch him out. But James is just a teenager, he wouldn't be sent by the nuns to catch Q at being a thief. 

Q decides to get back to looking for some cheese sandwiches. He's never stayed in the kitchen this long and he's starting to feel uneasy. He gets onto his knees and opens the drawer, peering inside. 

"Are you new to the orphanage?" He asks, speaking slightly louder now that his back is to James. 

"Obviously," James replies. Q hears him hoist himself up onto the kitchen island, a small grunt escaping as he does so. 

"But they never introduced you today. And you're old. They don't usually take in older children." 

“Guess I'm special," he says with careful stoicism. 

Q squints in the drawer, feeling around for the sandwiches. He tries not to make too much noise, but there's so much plastic packaging. James stays silent behind him. Q smiles to himself as he feels the triangular sandwich boxes.  

There are three, so he asks James if he wants one. "I don't like cheese." 

A short huff of laughter escapes Q at the boy's naivety. “You'll start to like cheese when you have the food the nuns give us.” 

Q closes the drawer quietly, and sits down on the floor. He places the sandwich for James on the floor, and opens his own, eager to dig in. After a few bites, James gives in. He takes a seat in front of Q, crossing his legs on the cold floor.  

They eat in silence. Q starts to sneak glances at James. Specifically, his eyes, because they're so blue. Who knew blue-eyed people had such blue eyes? His irises look like glass. 

James catches his gaze once, but doesn't say anything, and Q figures he hasn't noticed that Q has snuck glances the past seven times as well. When he looks up again, though, Bond is waiting for him to match his gaze, his lips set into a deep scowl. "What are you staring at?" 

Q flushes, feels the tips of his ears turn pink. "I've never seen someone with blue eyes before," he says, hoping it's an adequate explanation. 

It's a bit embarrassing to admit, but there isn't anyone in the orphanage with blue eyes, so his awe is completely justified. There is a boy with green eyes, but his are murky, like swamp water. James' are blue, completely blue, like a cloudless sky.

James' scowl softens at the edges. “You’ve been in the orphanage for a long time, then.” 

“Since I was four,” he chirps. He’s finished his sandwich now, wipes any crumbs around his mouth with the back of his hand. In an attempt to seem more relatable to James, who’s been out in the real world his whole life, he adds, “I have a brother though, he’s nineteen.” 

“And he left you here?” 

Q narrows his eyes. “He didn’t leave me. He’s just figuring some things out, okay?” 

James realises he’s made a mistake and apologises quickly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean it like that.” 

Q glances out the window and exclaims softly, “Oh, it’s— we should go. I think the cooks come in early and it’s getting light outside.” 

James shrugs, still eating his sandwich. “Who cares.” 

Q’s eyes widen slightly at the boy’s confidence. “I don’t want to be put in solitary.” 

James perks up a bit at that. “Solitary? That sounds fun.” 

“It’s  _not_.” Q doesn’t miss the irony of looking out for a boy twice his height, but he’s heard such horrifying things about solitary. They shove you in an empty room in the dark for a day, and the only times you can come out is if you need the toilet.  

James hums noncommittally, finishing up his sandwich now. Q takes this as a sign to get up off the floor. He stretches his stiff legs. “I’m going to go.” 

James doesn’t look up from where he’s sitting, simply nodding. “Alright.” 

Q stares down at the boy. “Aren’t you going to come?” 

James looks up now, a tight expression on his face, and Q realises he’s probably coming across as clingy, but he just doesn’t want him to get in trouble on his first day. “We don’t even sleep on the same floor, what’s the point in going together?” 

That’s true. The older kids sleep on the floor above, and there are two different staircases for the different floors, so they’ll have to go separate ways. “Okay,” he says quietly.  

Now that light has filled up the room, he really looks at James, and he sees things he didn't notice before. Like the exact shade of James' hair – dark blonde – and his eyes, and the scar running across his forehead. It's small, just above his right eyebrow, but it's there. Q realises embarrassingly that James must've thought he was staring at his scar before, rather than his eyes. He's not that type of person, though, those kids that mill about gossiping. 

Still, there's something magnetic about James, and he can't help asking more questions. "How old are you?" he asks, his voice slow with curiosity. 

"Sixteen." 

Q feels his mouth shape itself into a soft 'o'. "Oh. That's..." James cocks an eyebrow lazily. "Old."  

James doesn't say anything, getting up off the floor and brushing any dirt of his jeans. His jeans are nice, Q thinks. He probably brought a load of nice clothes from wherever he's come from. Q feels kind of tatty in his corduroy pants. At least they fit, he thinks bitterly as he wrings his hands nervously.  

James starts to rummage through the drawers – not the larger ones though, but the smaller ones. Q thinks to tell him that the only thing he'll find in those drawers is cutlery and napkins, but he stops himself and says a simple 'bye' instead. 

"See you," James replies perfunctorily. 

Q smiles at James but he's already turning away to get back to looking through the drawers.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this (kind of long) first chapter. 
> 
> Please do leave a comment/kudo if you liked it! :)


End file.
